Clara Oswald, Aren't You Supposed To Be Dead?
by sherlockedbyben
Summary: Clara's flying around the universe in a Tardis with nothing but time on her hands, and you're lying if you haven't thought about the numerous situations that could arise. This will be a series of one shots featuring Clara Oswald and numerous other characters from numerous different fandoms. Any. Take your pick, I'm open to requests. All in the name of fun.
1. Ramiel

**I've always wondered what Clara would get up to after she 'died', and whizzing around in a stolen Tardis just opens up a realms of possibilities, too many to ignore. I like mixing fandoms, taking characters from here and there and throwing them together to see what they do, so basically, I just thought this would be fun. I'll write meetings between Clara and other characters both major and extremely minor, like in the case of this first one. This is completely random. No pairing, only a plot if you squint, just a situation.**

 **Here's a crossover between the Supernatural and Doctor Who universe. Enjoy!**

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Clara Oswald wasn't accustomed to breaking and entering, but the house had just been conveniently… There.

And if you're going to leave your front door unlocked, well…

She stumbled into the abode, barely registering the blooming warmth of bright light that greeted her before spinning around and slamming the door securely shut. Breathing heavily, though she sometimes wondered if that was even necessary these days or simply a force of habit that connected her to some degree of normality, she fumbled with the dead bolt and slid it across with a sharp clang.

She exhaled in raw relief, taking a serene moment to lean her forehead against the smooth wood of the door in gratitude. She barely had time to ruminate on her next course of action before an equally heavy sigh rivalled her own.

Possibly the most world weary sigh she had heard in years. And was that a tinge of annoyance carried on the exasperated exhalation of breath?

Clara whipped around, startled. She wasn't usually so jumpy, but a steady succession of near death experiences will do that to you, even if you're already basically dead.

She didn't see the man at first. She drank in her surroundings with fervor, her wide eyes gluttonously soaking up every small detail of the cabin-like interior. It was cosy, she'd admit, and wasn't quite sure why her Tardis- Before it had not so gracefully careered into the unforgiving ground nearby with a sickening crunch that couldn't amount to anything positive- Had warned her that there was something dark residing in this place. The ship had spewed sinister rumours and spun chilling tales so fanciful that even Clara Oswald, who had seen and done so much she could hardly be considered a sceptic, had found hard to believe. The existence of Hell in the sense of a fiery pit of doom and damnation was a concept hard to stomach when you're fleeing from a crew of disgruntled Gallifreyans intent on sending you hurtling into the next life. Besides, Clara decided firmly, this small house couldn't home a malevolent, dangerous entity. It was far too normal. It practically exuded a restful tranquility. Photographs lined the wooden walls, giving the room an inimitably homely feel, ravenous shadows cast by the flickering flames in the hearth licking eagerly at the frames. Fishing equipment, meticulously arranged was settled comfily in a corner, and an awe-inducing array of books hunkered down in the shelves that lines the far wall. It was an impressive collection, and Clara found herself itching to run a finger along the spines, knowing that if she was given the opportunity it wouldn't take long to select the perfect volume to dislodge from its closely packed neighbours and pluck from the clutches of the bookcase. All in all, the house appeared well lived in, and was warm and welcoming.

Someone cleared their throat expectantly, and Clara's wandering attention, previously occupied with following the listless trajectory of one of the many rows of old books along the shelf, was snapped into order. Alert now, she was once again drawn to the source of the sound which sat with its back to her in a rocking chair in front of a roaring hearth.

"Don't they teach you to knock where you're from?"

Clara shuffled from foot to foot, suddenly feeling a tad sheepish. She bit back her apology however, deeming that it wasn't required or expected, judging by the man's nonchalant drawl and the fact that he still hadn't bothered to turn to look at her. She hummed in a non-committal manner.

"Well this is… Something," She mused, clasping her hands behind her back and pursing her lips as she glanced around the room, observing in the dancing shadows that the flames in the hearth cast upon the walls as they cavorted mirthfully. She eyed the man warily, trying in vain to suss him out. He appeared quite relaxed, unperturbed at the fact that a stranger was currently standing in his living room, and was inspecting a gold stopwatch with pedantic appraisal. Could he really be the dark force that the Tardis had been warning her about? She tilted her head to the side and squinted. He appeared to be a regular, sandy haired, jumper clad man minding his own business. Hardly a fiendish entity. Surely just a glitch.

"Who are you?" He drew the words out jadedly, as if it took him great effort to do so. "What do you want?"

Clara realised he wasn't turning around any time soon, and so she boldly skirted around the chair and moved to stand in front of him instead. His eyes remained fixated on the watch as he wiped at it with a cloth, as if he hadn't noticed that she was there. More likely that he simply didn't care in the slightest.

"Sanctuary," She chirped, vying for his attention. "Think you can handle that?"

The man raised his head slowly, a blank, expressionless stare made colder by his empty eyes, devoid of compassion or feeling. She suppressed a shiver. Maybe he was more sinister than she had anticipated. Or maybe she had just been rendered paranoid by her recent status as one of the living dead. Nonetheless, the man appraised her for a moment, then returned his attention to the watch.

"No."

Clara quirked an eyebrow.

"Abrupt. Snarky. Brash and to the point. I like it."

"How did you get past Crowley's demons?" The man finally deemed the watch satisfactory and placed it carefully on the round table beside him, already the resting place for an upturned book and an empty glass. He proceeded to fold the cloth painstakingly slowly, going to great lengths to line the corners up just so. Clara blinked.

"Demons? Those are real?" She frowned, then decided that it made sense, judging by what the Tardis had been nagging her about. She opted for the nonjudgmental approach, the time spent with the Doctor having made her immune to being shocked by most outrageous claims. "Well, I've heard crazier, I suppose. I hope they weren't your friends. Because my Tardis kind of crushed them. Very Wizard of Oz-esque."

"What?"

"Sorry, are you confused about the Tardis or the Wizard of Oz reference? Because I'm presuming you're a demon too, and I'm no expert on hell and all that so I don't know how up to date you are with films and such-"

"Leave now. Before I make you."

Clara put up her hands with a bashful grin.

"Okay sorry. I'm rambling. Just give me five minutes? Just for the _hell_ of it? Eh?" Her laugh died out like a frail wisp of smoke struck and scattered by an icy gust of wind and she winced at the man's stony expression, offering a grimace. "Sorry."

He braced his hands against the arms of the chair and stood. He looked as if he was battling another sigh, raised his eyebrows almost patronisingly, and shuffled slightly as he folded his arms across his chest. Finally. She was the centre of his attention. And quite probably the bane of his entire existence, if the air of acute agitation he was exuding was anything to go by.

"Five entire minutes of my time? Gosh. I'm not sure."

Clara took the venomous sarcasm as an encouraging sign.

"I'll make it quick."

"Why are you here?" He interjected. Why indeed, Clara pondered. Well, she was on the run from a group of arrogant Time Lords who wanted to return her to her point of death toute suite, which wasn't exactly on her bucket list of goals to complete today. The Tardis had landed here for a reason, more like crashed, but all the same. And what she had seen so far gave her reason to believe that this place could make quite the safe house. Demon guards? Precisely what she needed.

"I just told you. I'm in a bit of a fix, and I'm looking for somewhere to lay low. I hear you're a man who doesn't like to be disturbed, and if those demons outside were anything to go by, it seems like you're pretty good at not being bothered."

"You haven't answered my first question. Who are you?"

"Clara Oswald, at your service. And you are?"

"Not important."

"I've heard different."

"Then why did you ask?"

"I wanted to know if the whispers were true," She bit her lip, then decided to relay the far-fetched, albeit probably true story the Tardis had told her. "About you being a _prince of hell_."

The man sniffed and gave a derisive shrug, his face contorting slightly as if the name left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Titles, labels. Doesn't mean anything."

"True that. Now are you going to kick me out, or let me stay?"

The man stared at her for a long moment. Clara allowed a small smirk to curve her lips.

"Ah, now, I don't know _you,_ but I know that look too well. You're thinking. Calculating. So what have you decided? Accept or reject?"

The man had begun to walk slowly, a prowling predator circling his captive prey, contemplating when to bite the bullet and lunge for the jugular.

"Killing you is on the cards also," He cocked his head to the side meditatively, a breezy air to his voice as if he had just made a noncommittal comment on the weather. Speaking of which, he chose that moment to angle his head and gaze out the window absently. "If we're playing multiple choice."

Clara broke into a grin. Now _this_ was a game she could play.

"Oooh, should've considered that. Wait, I did. And it's an empty threat."

The demon smiled wanly.

"Why's that, Clara?"

"Because I'm already dead. Here, check my pulse."

She proffered her wrist proudly. The man paused, held his hands up and wrinkled his nose. The very idea of human contact didn't seem to sit well with him.

"I believe you. I was just testing. I'm well acquainted with the dead sort. Takes one to know one, you could say."

"Kindred spirits, we are," Clara beamed, nonplussed by his arguably unfriendly behaviour. "So, can I stay?"

A laden pause.

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?" Clara folded her arms and chanced a pout. The demon shook his head in mild disbelief.

"Because I don't _care_ about you _or_ your plight. I want my peace. I like my quiet. Already, I can see you can't offer me either of those things."

"I'll be quiet, I swear."

"Swear on what? Your life? That's a good one, Clara."

"Twice."

"Pardon?"

"That's twice now you've used my name. Play fair and tell me yours."

"Ramiel. You happy? Now, _get_. _Out_."

"Ramiel, _Ramiel…_ I like it. It's almost lyrical. If I shut up will you let me stay?"

"My patience is starting to wear thin, and I didn't have a measurable amount to begin with. So, if you would please just…" He gestured towards the door, eyebrows raised expectantly. Clara clicked her tongue pensively. Something obstinately rooted deep inside her seemed to feed off Ramiel's reluctance to allow her refuge here, and the closer he came to actively tossing her outside the door, the more she seemed intent on staying. She couldn't explain it. Perhaps it was the fact that he was simply not interested in her in the slightest, the mere prospect of having a conversation with someone who harboured no ulterior motive yet carried an unmissable hint of danger intrigued and excited her and reminded her of adventures with the Doctor that had been swept away by the implacable transience of time. She missed being grounded. And by nature, she had an insatiable curiousity and thirst to unravel the mysteries of the stubbornly unknown.

"Okay wait, I can see I'm not going to win you over with my charm or my pleading," She crossed her own arms, mirroring Ramiel's guarded position as information from the Tardis database skipped past the other notions and unformed ideas and clawed its way to the surface of her mind. "But I hear you're a collector of weapons."

Ramiel paused mid sigh.

"Dare I ask how you know so much about me?"

"I googled you. No, that was a joke, sorry I do that when I get nervous. The Tardis told me. Warned me against coming here, actually. Or did she mean for me to come here? It's hard to tell sometimes, mercurial machines, they are. Don't ask what a Tardis is, not yet, at least. I'll get to that."

"Weapons. You mentioned weapons?"

"Yes. Well, _a_ weapon. Not the most obvious, might even seem a little bit ridiculous to you, in fact. But hear me out. Ah! How ironic. That's basically the weapon."

"I'm not following."

"Can I sit?"

He motioned to a seat, his expression unreadable. Clara deposited herself in the armchair and peered up at Ramiel expectantly. This was a long shot, but she was desperate. She hadn't been lying when she said she wanted sanctuary.

"Please sit too, you just standing there makes me…" She trailed off under the press of his withering glare. "Okay, never mind. Right, don't laugh. Just listen. You want to know what one of the greatest weapons of all is?"

"Ten. Nine. Eight-"

"What?" Clara sat bolt upright with a frown. "Hey, don't do that, don't count down."

"Seven, six-"

"Alright, alright! I'll cut to the chase. Make the long story short. Ha! Irony again. Stories."

"Excuse me?"

"Stories. Or even just _a_ story."

" _That's_ your weapon?" Ramiel's eyes widened incredulously. He let out a sound which was a strange hybrid of a laugh and a choke. Clara shrugged.

"It's worked for me."

"Get out, before I make you pay for the time you've wasted," Ramiel's voice was low and there was a sharp, deadly edge encompassed in his tone.

"Tell you what," Clara bounced up and started towards the small kitchen adjacent. "I'll make tea. Demons don't mind tea, right? I'm guessing your water supply isn't connected to a blessed spring or anything. And if it was, would boiling knock the holiness out of it?"

"Rambling," Ramiel reminded her bluntly. "Again."

"Sorry, sorry. I'll make tea. I'll tell you about the fiercest weapon of all time. And you'll listen."

"I will, will I?" He leaned against the door frame and gazed at her with a dubious frown as she pottered around the counter, lifting and slamming various lids in an attempt to locate the teabags.

"Yes, you'll listen," She smiled. "Because I've killed monsters with stories."

Ramiel stared at her for a long moment, and during his brooding deliberation Clara wondered briefly what would happen if he really did kill her. Could someone really die twice? It would be an interesting experiment, but truth be told she wasn't in the mood for playing guinea pig.

The demon sighed again and pushed away from the door, turning his back on her and ambling back towards the rocking chair.

"Just make the damn tea."

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 **If you like this sort of thing, just let me know and I'll continue with this series of one shots! Various meeting between Clara and different characters each chapter, I'll take requests so if you have an idea in mind, throw it at me guys, throw all the suggestions and I'll damn well catch them. Leave it in reviews or message me, whichever suits. Any fandom will do, I'll be writing more anyway with focus on doctor who, supernatural, Sherlock etc… But whatever you come up with guys, major character, minor character, I don't care. I'll only draw the line if there's a character that I genuinely have no clue about because I don't want to write anything out of character, but I'm part of a lot of fandoms guys, so chances are I'll know it.**

 **Thanks for reading, hope to hear from you!**


	2. Mrs Hudson

**As requested by Bluer Than The TARDIS, a meeting between Clara and the one and only Mrs Hudson** **Enjoy!**

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As Clara Oswald stood wringing her limp, wet hair and observing with mild amusement the ebullient old lady who was enigmatically fawning over the shiny new cooking appliance that had been mysteriously deposited in her cramped kitchen, she realised that she was going to have to come up with a far more plausible excuse than to simply expect her to swallow the tale of her Tardis' recently altered chameleon circuit. That particular story was bound to be somewhat unpalatable, she reasoned.

"Oh for goodness sake, look at you traipsing mud and all sorts around the flat! Dear me, the mess!"

It was the first thing the woman had said to Clara after realising that she wasn't the deliverer of this unexpected new oven, and Clara, having narrowly avoided being caught in the act of clambering out of the small door, hadn't the heart or the whimsical talent for spinning up feasible explanations on the spot to inform her that the object was in fact her Tardis masquerading as an oven.

The woman began to bustle about the small room, inspecting first the oven, and then Clara herself. She held a finger to her lips and tutted quietly, no doubt at her bedraggled appearance.

"Clients go upstairs don't you know? And you're early. Nobody appreciates someone being too eager, dear, I mean honestly."

Clara smoothed down the front of her blouse and nodded vigorously despite the fact that she had no idea where she was, why she was here, and what in the world the woman was talking about.

"Client. Right. Yes. Okay, I'll just-"

"Ah, no you won't. Sherlock's with another of his little projects at the moment and if you disrupt him he'll likely tear you to shreds," The woman held her hands up in exasperation, though Clara was relieved to find that it wasn't directed at her. "With words of course, that sharp tongue of his, though I wouldn't go near him when he's got a gun in his hand either. The holes he's left in my walls! Oh, but anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. No, seeing as you're here, you might as well stay and wait."

Clara recovered herself quickly and pushed a few straggling strands of hair back from her face, but remained silent. For once, she wasn't sure what to make of the situation. The woman clicked her fingers at her impatiently, but her smile was not unkind.

"Well, go on then, make yourself useful. Kettles over there. I've been worked off my feet all day. Two sugars, please."

After a few brief moments in which Clara set about making tea for two- _"Not too weak, dear, I like to know I'm drinking more than just bog water, thank you"_ \- and the few opportunities there were for potential silence were nipped in the bud and filled with informal introductions and remarks about current affairs and stale gossip, the pair found themselves sitting at the small table, and Clara felt more safe and content than she had in weeks.

"I didn't want to say it, dear," The woman, Mrs Hudson, as she had insisted on being called _–"Mrs Hudson, no more, no less"-_ leaned forward and peered at her with a hint of wary concern. "But you look terrible."

Clara blinked, and a hand shot to her damp hair self-consciously. A brief altercation involving a boat too small for the group insistent on travelling in it and a couple of species of alien prone to bursts of spontaneous anger and excitement had left her looking worse for wear and typically, the opportunity to change hadn't arose before she had found herself landing quite unexpectedly in Mrs Hudson's kitchen on Baker Street.

"Thank you," She cleared her throat in mild surprise, quite impressed by the woman's blatant honesty. "I feel it, if I'm being quite honest."

"Well, why else would you be here?" Mrs Hudson laughed, a short, keening trill that was complimented by the tinkling of her dangling earring as they were dislodged by the movement when she leaned back. "Don't you worry, we get all kinds of poor lost souls and misfortunes in here."

Clara hummed noncommittally. She was vaguely intrigued, but her relief at being able to sit still for more than five minutes overpowered everything else. For a short few panicky seconds, she had been sure that Mrs Hudson was going to kick her out, but she had thankfully managed to convince her that no, she had not delivered the mysterious new oven, and _no_ she certainly didn't think that it was a bribe from some old associate of her late husband.

"So, what are you here to see the boys about, hm? Murder? Oh, he does love those."

"Er, no, nothing quite as exciting as that." Clara paused. "Actually quite different."

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson inhaled sharply and held a palm to her chest in a dramatic fashion. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You were the one who did the murdering."

"No!"

"Oh," She seemed disappointed and hesitated, thinking.

"Trouble in paradise, then?" Mrs Hudson wrapped her fingers around her mug securely, but flapped a hand dismissively when she caught sight of Clara's dubious expression. "Oh, don't look at me like that, it's more common than you'd think. Sherlock's very good with that kind, too. He had my husband sorted out a few years back. Got him executed good and proper. It's why I give him the cheaper rates."

She blew steam from the rim of her mug and took a dainty sip. Clara stared, and wondered briefly if she really _was_ facing another alien.

"Well. That's very… Decent of him. Of you. Of you both. I think."

"Yes, well a bit of compromise goes a long way, that's what I always say," Mrs Hudson nodded, as if asserting her argument further. She pursed her lips, pensive. "I'd better tell the boys they've got another one."

The chair scraped as she moved to stand up.

"Actually," Clara began loudly, stopping Mrs Hudson in her tracks. "I'd much rather talk to you. Seems like you know what you're talking about."

"Well," Mrs Hudson paused, fixed her hair with a flattered smile, her eyes widened in mild surprise. "I suppose you could say I do, not that anyone listens, mind you. Now, I'm no detective, dear, I'm just the widow of a drug dealer-"

"Perfect," Clara slammed her hands palm down on the table with perhaps more force than she had been intending. "Exactly the type of person I want to talk to."

"Well, then, I'm all ears. Although you may have to shout if he starts going off on one up there. You know, shooting holes in the wall and all that. Whether it means he's annoyed or excited I can't always tell."

"I'm an English teacher," Clara smiled. "I'm used to raising my voice."

"Really?" Mrs Hudson grinned delightedly and clasped her bony hands together. Her angular features softened as she smiled, her eyes lighting up her lined face. "Oh, but that's wonderful, dear! What a lovely little job. Although I'm not too into all that reading malarkey myself. I prefer a bit of telly, me."

"Sometimes you just have to find the right story, I suppose," Clara relented with a shrug.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, Clara, I do read," Mrs Hudson eyed her earnestly. "Why, I read John's blog whenever I can! Can't say I enjoy it though."

Her face contorted into a disdainful frown.

"I wouldn't recommend it, it's hardly Shakespearean standard," She waved a hand vaguely. "And I'm barely mentioned."

She shuddered at the scandal and Clara hummed in sympathetic agreement.

"Enough about all that!" Mrs Hudson leaned forward. "Tell me. What's your story, dear?"

Clara hesitated and allowed her fingers to dance along the smooth table top as she deliberated quietly. She coughed finally.

"There are some… People… Looking for me," She began cautiously. "Not very good people. Well, maybe they are, I wouldn't know, but what they want with me isn't too great."

Mrs Hudson leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Are you in trouble with a gang, dear?" She stage whispered with a knowing nod. Clara laughed nervously.

"Um, well, no-"

Mrs Hudson gestured lazily with a hand.

"Oh, I know all about it, don't even get me started. My husband, his antics were always bringing men to the door. You know the sort, big, intimidating, think the ground they walk on is sacred- Well, I'll tell you, they're all talk in my experience," She pointed a finger at Clara. "Shake your fist at them and they'll soon be on their way. As long as you aim for the nose when you do it, that is."

Clara snorted.

"I suddenly feel very safe, Mrs Hudson."

"Yes, well, I dare say you're well able to handle yourself too, dear. You have that look about you."

"I do?" Clara quirked an eyebrow and smiled.

"Oh yes, you seem very grounded, very reasonable. It's good to have people like that in the world we live in."

"You can say that again," Clara sipped at her tea, grateful that it had now cooled to a satisfactory temperature.

"People these days go for all sorts of crazy things, phases and such," Mrs Hudson's mouth morphed into a grimace as she began her rant. "There was John upstairs with his moustache, oh it aged him terribly, and Sherlock still hasn't grown out of that funny hat phase- What about you dear? As I said, you seem like a sensible sort, you wouldn't go mindlessly getting tattoos and the like, I'd reckon."

Clara choked on her tea, and Mrs Hudson fussed and handed her a tissue. Clara rubbed the back of her neck absently.

"Mrs Hudson, I can tell you right now, truthful as you like, that I really, _really_ despise tattoos."

"You see," Mrs Hudson aimed a crooked finger at her with a victorious grin. "I have a knack for sensing these things."

"I'll bet we're very alike in that respect, Mrs Hudson, two sensible women," Clara chanced another sip of her tea, managing to keep the warm liquid in check this time as it travelled past her tongue. She flailed around in her mind for something relevant to say, something Mrs Hudson would deem equally outrageous. "You'd be the last person I'd expect to do something crazy like… Like lock a man in the trunk of your car."

Mrs Hudson squawked and jolted her teacup with a clatter, putting a hand to her mouth and stifling a strained laugh. Clara opened her mouth to express her concern, but the woman waved her away.

"Clara, dear, I think you've got the knack for reading people too," She forced a nervous chuckle and began to clear the empty cups and saucers away. "Oh, dear, I should've laid out some biscuits. You look like a girl who could do with a few."

"There again with that knack, Mrs H," Clara grinned. "But I've got a better idea."

She stood abruptly, holding a finger to her lips for a moment as she surveyed the kitchen. She nodded decisively, and opted to make her visit worthwhile.

"Tell you what. I'm not the best chef, but I do know an amazing recipe for an incredible soufflé," She clapped her hands together, already imagining the feel of flour grains soft between them. "I think your baking skills teamed with my knowledge could make quite the formidable force."

"What a great idea!" Mrs Hudson practically shrieked. "Oh, we could give some to the boys! Not too much though, or they'll think I'm gone soft."

As if summoned by the mere force of thought, a loud succession of footsteps padded halfway down the stairs and stopped.

"Mrs Hudson!" A loud voice called, a hint of impatience embedded in the tone. Clara cocked her head to the side. British. Male. The man upstairs who had a penchant for shooting holes in Mrs Hudson's walls, perhaps?

Mrs Hudson scoffed and rolled her eyes to heaven.

"I'm busy, Sherlock! If you want a housekeeper, go check golden pages, because I'm just your landlady!"

"Mrs Hudson, it's a matter of urgency," The voice was slightly closer now, though still at a distance, wafting down from above. "Stop talking to that school teacher and come and help me find-"

"Hang on- How did he know that?" Clara pointed upwards incredulously.

"Obvious. I could tell by your footsteps," The disembodied voice drawled.

"Really?" Clara gaped.

"No, of course not."

"Don't mind him," Mrs Hudson's face scrunched up in a grimace. "He does that."

"Sherlock, if you're looking for those thumbs, they're in the freezer," She called, eyes cast upwards in the general direction of the stairs. "I found them decaying in the fridge and did the only thing I could think of short of throwing them out."

"That was the whole point of the experiment," The disgruntled voice grunted, fading significantly as the footsteps plodded upstairs once more.

"Don't bother asking questions, dear," Mrs Hudson turned to Clara and threw her eyes skywards. "You're really better off not knowing."

"You're right," Clara grinned bashfully. "I don't need more complications in my life."

"Now about that soufflé?"

"Ah, yes," Clara scraped her hair backwards into a messy ponytail and placed her hands on her hips. "Only let's not use the new oven, alright?"

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 **Hope you enjoyed that one, I'll try update this frequently if the interest is there** **Any more requests for me? They can be from just Doctor Who as well, no need even for a crossover, whatever you like, anything goes!**

 **Thanks so much for reading!**


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